Oliver Constable stood in no danger of being bound in thrall by Agneta Stanhope, and his insensibility formed another racy distinction in her eyes. No doubt in her cloistered schoolroom days, she had not yet begun her career of conquest. But she had moved in circles where it is the business of many men’s lives to please women, where it becomes a trick of habit which keeps the hand in play, even when it is not pursued for the sake of any individual woman. She had been accustomed, during her passing glimpses of the world she was to live in, to be outwardly deferred to, flattered and complimented. Now Mr. Constable, while she was sure he was incapable of being anything save chivalrously good to any woman, did not flatter her a bit. He had a strong propensity to speak the truth always. Sometimes he forgot himself so far as to take her off almost as he took off his sister, or, worse still, to lose sight of her existence for the moment, as he lost sight of Fan’s. Withal, in spite of the brotherly obliviousness, and the difference of opinion on many points between Oliver and Fan, Agneta could not fail to see that in the middle of his dry jokes and bitter enough sarcasms, Oliver Constable regarded his sister far more as his equal than Harry regarded his sister whom he habitually petted. Mr. Constable consulted Miss Constable seriously, even when he did not take her advice. But Harry, though he was sufficiently interested to notice Agneta’s mode of doing her hair, her changes of dress, her adopted occupations, and would even, as she was gratefully persuaded few brothers would, put himself about to contribute to her occupations and render them agreeable, never talked to her even as he talked to Horry, never made her the confidante of his schemes and plans, never asked her opinion on any subject of more consequence than a neck-tie or the cutting of his hair. Harry would never think of behaving in any other manner to a girl like Agneta.